Christopher
by metro.max
Summary: Dive into Lily Evans's true feelings for her boyfriend and that 'friend who's a boy' through her 'interesting' diary entries. [COMPLETE]
1. 4 January 1977

**Disclaimer:** I suppose I own Christopher. In essence. That, sadly, is all.

**Author's Notes: **Deep breath. Okay, this is a story I've been dying to write. It was going to be a oneshot with actual dialogue, but somehow it came out in the form of Lily's diary. This post was actually going to be the prologue, but then the diary idea came up, so some thoughts might seem a bit... calculated. I dunno how to explain it, but if you notice it, mention it in your **review**, but if you didn't, completely ignore what I'm saying and leave a **review** anyway. D

Ugh, that doesn't make sense. What I'm saying is that some of Lily's comments toward the end of the post are in the past tense, making it seem like it's after this whole ordeal, but it's really not. Just keep an eye out for the date at the top of the post. Oh yeah, and--

**REVIEW**.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_4 January, 1977_

When he had walked up to me, all charming eyes and dashing good looks, I hadn't known what to expect.

He is by far one of the most gorgeous men in all of Hogwarts, with eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles and matching dimples in the middle of his pale cheeks. And he's brilliant, too; very witty and better-than-average grades. He's agentleman and easy to be around.

Now I know I'm a good-looking girl; everyone's told me and I'm not blind. There may be a few things I don't like about myself, but I don't let them hold me back. So when he walked up to me and asked me out, I wasn't very surprised.

But what did surprise me were the emotions running through me. He was a wonderful person and would make a fabulous boyfriend. Just why was I so hesitant to say yes?

I knew the answer, of course. It was _him_. Everyone had to have their school-girl crush on him and it was just my turn. Surely it would pass. But, I reasoned with myself, wouldn't that silly little crush pass all the quicker with a dashing, dimpled boyfriend? But of course, I quickly reassured myself.

Besides, hadn't I giggled and gossiped with my roommates and friends about him and his dimples and how fabulous we would look on his arm? Wasn't I one of the girls who often swooned over what his kisses would be like? This was a chance many girls were pining away for; why waste my chance?

So I said yes.

I am now officially the lucky girl on Christopher Danes' arm. I get to see his dimples up close and gaze into his charming eyes whenever I please. I get to swoon over his feather-light kisses, which, might I add, are better than what Clarisse had ever said.

I'm happy, of course, for who wouldn't be happy with Christopher Danes? He pulls out my chair on dates, sends me flowers almost every day, and even reserves my favorite table in the library. He's sweet and charming and gentle with me, as if a kiss could break me. He compliments me and sends me sweet little notes when I'm upset or overwhelmed. He's an even better boyfriend than I though he would be.

But somehow, my psychology simply isn't working for me. Don't get me wrong, Christopher is a perfect gentleman, but I just can't seem to find the spark between us that makes you feel like you've got a bubbling potion within you.

You see, no matter how I try to distract myself with Christopher, _his_ head pops into my mind and _his_ voice fills my thoughts. Sometimes my thoughts of him even go so far as to distract me into ignoring Christopher.

It makes me feel awful. Christopher is an absolute doll and deserves my full attention. So why is it that I can't seem to give it to him? It almost makes me feel as if I'm cheating on him, except without actually cheating on him. It's a consuming feeling.

Time and time again I question myself on why I actually agreed to go out with Christopher. It wasn't because I fancied him and it wasn't lust, and I couldn't even go so far as to say that I did it because I had the chance. No, it was something much different that made me say yes.

I had just come out of a meeting with the Head Boy when he asked me. He had looked anxious and had waited for me to clean up. Incidentally, the Head Boy had knocked over a stack of parchment and had told us to "pretend I'm not here." Christopher listened and asked me right then.

I have to admit I was a bit gob smacked. He'd said it so suavely and yet with a tinge of nervousness in his voice that made him irresistible. Perhaps I looked a bit gob smacked as well. At least that would explain my hesitancy to answer.

The real reason, though, was the Head Boy. He was staring intently at the parchment in his hands, awaiting my answer as much as Christopher was.

My heart went out for him then. He'd watched me go through my own fair chare of boyfriends and heartbreak, waiting relentlessly. Maybe he really chased me for the challenge; maybe it was really some dare he wouldn't live down; maybe he really did fancy me. But for whatever reason, he was waiting for my answer with baited breath as well.

That is when I did the quickest thinking I've ever done. _Do I really want my obsession with the other Head to continue? _I asked myself. _Do I really want to get over something we would never be able to have? Do I even know how he really feels about me?_

No, I answered myself confidently. I shouldn't be feeling this and I'm going to make to go away. It's what's right for both of us.

My mother often told me I was truly awful at gauging emotion, and I'd have to agree with her. I wasn't able to see what everyone else saw about the Head Boy's feelings toward me. I wasn't able to see what everyone else saw about my feelings toward the Head boy. But even if I could have been able to see it, I reckon I would've been too stubborn to admit to anyway.

I agreed to go out with Christopher right in front of him. I thought that with a bit of a distraction, my obsession with the messy-haired Head Boy would quickly melt away.

Much to my dismay and confusion, it's not.

It was just another thing I couldn't—or rather, wouldn't—let myself understand.

My mum told me loving someone would be easy. So then why am I so confused?


	2. 6 January 1977

**Disclaimer: **I own the nickname Al... unless it's your (nick)name. In that case... we can share? 

**Author's Notes:** Ah, entry-thing two. Mmm... I like the entry after this one better. And... I think that's all I really have to say. So review if you would, please!

_Aliss_**_

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**_Christopher_**

_6 January, 1977_

I've been going out with Christopher Danes for exactly fifteen days now. Let me tell you what I've learned:

1. Christopher is just as, if not more, polite and gentlemanly than I thought he would be.

2. Christopher's favorite dessert is spotted dick pudding (I've never had much a taste for it myself as it includes the word "dick" and has mysterious chunks that people keep telling me are only raisins).

3. Christopher's first love is Quidditch (he's been playing since he's been old enough to sit on a broomstick).

4. Christopher's christened name is Christopher. Do not call him Chris, Chrissy, Sugar-lips, or any other form of his christened name. It is, after all, his christened name, and one's christened name should not be besmirched by ridiculous nicknames.

5. Christopher has a bit of a fetish for the word "christened" that I find rather unhealthy.

Rather interesting, isn't it? Hmm… I thought so too.

Why won't he let me call him Chris? Chrissy? _How_ could he refuse being called Sugar-lips? I mean, wouldn't you want to be called Sugar-lips?

I wouldn't, rather, but nonetheless…. But how could a simple "Chris" hurt? It's not as if I don't do it to anyone else. I call Remus Remmy (it's quite endearing), Almena has always been Al, I always enjoy calling Sirius Sissy (just to get on his nerves, of course, and to try and pop that gigantic head of his), and what about _him_?

Ever since the beginning of this year as the new Head Boy and Girl, we just sort of had a silent pact to put everything behind us and start out new. It was hard as I wasn't too keen on him then, but after working through all the Heads' duties the first night, I was glad to have a fresh start. We even introduced ourselves… again.

"Lily Evans' the name," I said, thrusting my hand out in front of me.

"Well, Lily Evans, I happen to go by James Potter," he said with a grin, returning the hand shake.

"James, eh?" I said, grinning wickedly. "Well, simply charmed to meet you, Jim."

He wrinkled his nose (he looked oddly like his 11-year-old counterpart) and said, "Jim?"

I nodded. "Don't you like the nickname, Jimmy?"

He wrinkled his nose again. "Erm… mind if we think of something a bit—less original?"

"Sorry, Jim m'boy, no can do," I said, slapping him on the back in a Slughorn-ish fashion. "First impressions are what count and I see you as a Jim."

"Then I think I'll call you—" he said quickly, putting a finger to his chin in a mock thinking pose, "Daisy."

"Daisy?" I questioned. "That sounds nothing like Lily. How did you ever get that?"

He shrugged and grinned. "First impressions are what count and I see you as a Daisy."

Doesn't Jim just fit him, though? It reminds me of Mrs. Gilbert from down the street—her puppy, that is, not Mrs. Gilbert herself—that puppy with the floppy ears who was always tripping over his own paws. He was a cute one.

Funny, though, how I went straight from Potter to Jim, isn't it? No in between stage with awkward pauses 'cos you don't know what to call the other person. Of course I call him James now, with a Jim thrown in here and there, but for a week straight I called him nothing but Jim. Sort of a transition phase, I suppose.

So as I was saying, ever since then we've been walking around calling each other Jim and Daisy. Its gotten people quite confused, actually. It's rather funny to listen to those swotty second year midgets whispering on about Jim and Daisy, the foreign exchange students from Beauxbatons who are really invisible.

We only do it jokingly, of course, but it's rather sweet having a nickname all of my own. We sit in the Heads' common room together and call each other those ridiculous names, like it's our own special thing. I suppose it is.

It was quite funny coming into the Gryffindor common room the first day of classes to meet up with Al and seeing only three fourths of the Marauders. I walked over them and asked them where Jim was. They looked at me like perhaps I tripped on the stairs and conked my head this morning or even that James tried to kidnap me again with a few misplaced spells.

I laughed, of course, and sat down by them to wait for Jam— AL. I was waiting for Al, rather. Why would I be waiting for James after really "knowing" him for one day? Of course I was waiting for Al. I'd rather wait for Al anyway.

UGH.

I just realized. How is it that no matter what I start off talking about, I end up writing pages and pages about _him_? Am I really that deep in that I have to resort to writing everything I think about him in this torn up little book that anyone could read at any time?

I mean, _Godric_, just imagine what would happen if Al was to get her greedy hands on this! I'd be scarred for life and end up living inside my room in the Heads' tower. I know I'd be teased and taunted so much I'd never be able to show my face in public again. Those swotty second years would probably follow me around the corridors, mocking me and making kissy faces whenever I passed, too. Imagine that, being tortured by those little buggers!

But… maybe its better if I write in here and not have it all bottled up inside—then I'm liable to explode and Merlin knows that would be even worse. Ugh, that would be the worst possible scenario… and believe me, I've thought up quite a few scenarios, and none of them are very good.

Suck it up, Evans! You're a big girl, you can take care of yourself! So what if there's a high probability that your innermost secret could be spilled all over Hogwarts by your best friend?

Oh _Merlin_.


	3. 15 January 1977

**Disclaimer: **That's my nail polish.

**Author's Notes: **This is my favorite for, _obvious _reasons. And, er-- I had pizza for lunch.

Yeah, I'm out of things to say already. No, wait!I bought a Relient K CD(Apathetic EP). I lurve it. :D

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_15 January, 1977_

Christopher is a very understanding chap. Sometimes this is a good thing. Sometimes this makes me want to blast my brains out with a well-placed spell.

It frustrates me to no end the way he seems so accepting. No amount of flirting seems to get on his nerves. From time to time I wonder if he would even be angry if I started snogging some random bloke in the middle of dinner.

And worse off, he knows very well who I flirt _with_. But no, flirting with the boy who's been after me for the past three and half years seems to have no affect whatsoever. I mean, why would that _possibly_ bother him?

Nothing fazes him at all. It's as if once we're romantically attached, that's it; like any other male who sees me or talks to me has pure, decent thoughts. It's as if he thinks he's the only man who can fancy me.

Yeah, _right_. Like that's going to happen. I know for a fact there's some midget sixth year who's been pining for me. I've even spoken to him a few times. But would that bother Christopher Danes? Hardly.

The funny thing is that I hardly spend time with him. The only time we're really together is in the library, studying. Not even a snog. Just studying. A trifle annoying, really, now that I think about it….

But I suppose it is a bit difficult for us to spend time together, seeing as he's from Ravenclaw and yours truly is a proud Gryffindor. In fact, I'm sure I see that sixth year midget more than Christopher, even if it is just in passing in the common room. And then there are others….

If there were any people I saw too much of, it would be the Marauders. They seem to have taken a fond liking to me, in fact. I sit in front of the fire, they're there within five minute; I grab a table to study, they have an essay or two to complete.

But the worst of it is that _he_ seems to be the one I'm with the most. I sit in front of the fire, he's right at my side; I grab a table to study, and he's the one with his chair closest to mine. You'd think Christopher would notice who manages to snag the spot next to me for every meal, but it still goes unchecked.

How am I ever supposed to get over the bloke if I see him most every waking moment? The loo seems to be my only sanctuary, and I'm sure he would go in there too if he ever could.

It's not as if I don't enjoy spending time with him, quite the contrary, really. And that's the problem. Now and again I'll just wish it was like the good ol' days when I thought his jokes were stupid and his hair a blatant turn off. But now… I laugh at his jokes, long to touch his hair, and even gaze probingly into his pretty eyes.

He's just—everywhere. I study with him, eat with him, take classes with him, rush to finish essays with him, talk late into the night with him, dream about him…. It's rather pathetic, really. I find I'm spending more time with him than I am with Christopher. Far more time, much too much time, I think. But really, what can I do about it? Can I help it we sit next to each other in four different classes? Or that we're in the same house, incidentally sticking us at the same house table and common room? Or that his favorite study table just also happens to be mine?

Nothing I can do about it, of course.

But you'd think the touching would annoy Christopher to no end, but to no avail.

A hand to brush a strand of hair from my eyes, an arm thrown carelessly around my shoulders as we walk to class, a hug if one is spontaneous enough, they all do it. Remus ensures my hair is clear of my face, Sirius makes sure to escort me to Potions, Peter likes the occasional hug, and James… James likes to hold my hands. Whether showing me the proper wand movement in Transfiguration or just making sure each one of my elegant fingers is still there, he'll do it.

I asked him about it once—his obsession with my hands, that is—and he shrugged it off with an "I dunno… they're nice, I s'pose," blushing all the while. It was a rather cute moment, if I do say so myself.

It's endearing, I suppose, the way he says I'm holding my fork wrong just so he can correct it, or that he'll offer to carry my books just so our fingers will graze. But the oddest request I've heard of him yet was when I was painting my fingernails.

I was curled up in front of the common room fire and had pulled out a bottle of shimmering pink polish, never mind that it would clash with my hair. He'd taken an immediate notice of the bottle from where he was sitting on the couch behind me and peered over my shoulder with interest.

"What're you doing?" he asked, eyeing the bottle curiously, as if he'd never seen such a thing before.

"Painting my nails," I replied, shaking the bottle to affectively mix the color.

"Could I?" he asked, sliding onto the floor next to me.

"Could you what?" I inquired, carefully unscrewing the cap.

"Could I paint your nails?" he asked, his face serious and shameless, his eyes moving from the bottle to my gaze.

I couldn't help but giggle as his fellow Marauders gave him looks of purest revulsion, which went unnoticed by him. Sirius even got up and left on account of "all this airy-fairy crap you have going on."

"Could I?" he questioned again, his eyes wide and his face holding a very serious but affectionate expression.

"I s'pose, if you really want to," I said gently, handing him the bottle and brush.

He grinned as he took them, forcing the brush back within the narrow neck of the bottle. He brought it up to eye level and slowly pulled it out, examining it interestedly. I watched him fondly as he held out the brush, having finally deemed it worthy.

He raised his eyes to mine and looked at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for something.

"Your hand," he reminded me softly.

I brought my hand up to his waiting one, never breaking eye contact. He chuckled softly as he grasped my hand in his for a moment before raising it to eye level to begin his work.

And it may have taken only half hour and a few select words to Merlin, but he finally reckoned my fingers good enough to kiss. And funnily enough, he did just that.

Then he cursed and had to redo several of my nails, to both of our abnormally-founded delight. I've never had so much fun painting my nails before, oddly enough.

Now—where exactly was I going with this again? Ah, yes.

James likes to touch my hands.

The odd thing about it is that Christopher doesn't seem to mind. I'm sure he's seen James take my hand in the middle of the corridor and pull me off to the next class, grinning at me and lacing his fingers with mine. But he just _doesn't—care_.

Why doesn't he care? Any normal boy would heat up and give the unfortunate bloke a piece of his mind, but not Christopher. He's much too soft-spoken and gentle for that. He doesn't even say he disapproves of that. No, he's much too chivalrous for that. It's not normal not to care. James would certainly care.

Yes, James would care.


	4. 18 January 1977

**Disclaimer: **Ah... I'd like to say I owned a pretty porcelain doll that little girls keep on shelves in their rooms but never play with, but that would be a lie.

**Author's Notes: **Hookay... so this chapter isn't as good as the others, but **deal with it**. Tehe... I love being the author. :D (And an advance "sorry" for all the review rants, but I'd like them and I find I always seem to review stories that tell me to. Lol.)

But as for an update on the story: I have another chapter all typed up and ready to go, but I would LOVE some more reviews before I update it. I don't care what you write, just write SOMETHING. Write your favorite breakfast food, for the love of Merlin, as long as you write something! K thanx.

But I do have the story all outlined now, and I'm estimating another eight or so chapters. Yay! Hey, I know what you can do! Tell me what you think Lily'll rant about next time in your **REVIEW**. -winkwinkhintnudgenudge-__

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_**Christopher**_

_18 January, 1977_

I'm an appealing girl, am I not? Have not people reminded me of how pretty I am? Or, perhaps I'm like one of those pretty porcelain dolls that little girls keep on shelves in their rooms but never play with.

Do I look like a porcelain doll?

I'm sure it's a flattering thing to be a "porcelain doll," but honestly, I don't break. If I'm as pretty as he and everyone else is telling me, then how come he doesn't have the nerve to touch me?

I don't want to be groped here, but it would be nice if Christopher would at least hold my hand or put an arm around my shoulders. But no, he's got to be all gentlemanly-like and keep his distance.

Did I give the impression, perhaps, that I don't like it when someone (my boyfriend in particular) runs a hand through my hair? I mean, I like hugs and such, but I'd like it even more if he'd run his fingers down my spine or kissed my fingertips. Not that anyone of significance has ever done that before… heh….

As I was saying, I'd be a world more appreciative if he'd pluck up the courage to throw an arm around my shoulder and pull me a little closer or tangle his fingers in my hair or trace circles on my knee with his finger. Blimey, I'd even be satisfied if he let his hands slip a bit lower when they're situated on my waist just so I could slap his hands away!

I mean, what of the Marauders? They're on me like third years on a loose Galleon in the corridors! Well… perhaps not that much, but nonetheless! A brotherly-like arm is constantly thrown around my shoulders as if they're afraid I wouldn't be able to walk myself to my next class! Well… three of the four implies brotherly.

The other one-fourth of the Marauders… not much so.

He's so open about it… and yet so _reserved_ in his actions. He's not like some of the perverted boys in Hogwarts, trying to get all over you. He's subtle, bumping his leg against mine to the tune of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" or resting an elbow on my convenient arm-rest-height shoulder. Its little things like that that equal up in the bigger picture of things, I suppose, and Jimmy ol' boy is equaling up a right bit good.

He's just so good to me, and I'm not even his girlfriend yet!

Rewind, back it up, stop stop stop!

If you're wondering—which I should hope you're not because that would mean you would be reading my inner most thoughts and then I would have to kill you in the cruelest possible way I could think of—I did most certainly **not** under any circumstances add a "yet" to the end of that sentence. That is why you most certainly _cannot_ see the blob of black ink I most certainly _did_ _not_ "accidentally" drip over the end of that sentence.

Most certainly not to all of it. That would be simply preposterous and I take offense that you might think anything was implied in any way, which, as you must know, it most certainly was not.

For as you can plainly see, I am **not** crushing on one James "Jim" Potter. That would be hypocritical and an oxymoron within itself, therefore making the mere thought of it so impossibly improbable to the point of the need for redundancy.

Please feel free to ignore the fact that the use of the double negative "impossibly improbable" makes it seem that it is in fact possibly probable. In fact, I insist.

_Forget or I'll Obliviate your mind!_

Thank you.

Remind me again **why** I'm making such a huge deal over a simple word? Or better yet, over a single guy?

Ugh!

Pull yourself together, Evans! You are woman—strong, fierce, relentless! You will not show weakness to any man! Show 'em what you're made of! Grrr!

Ah yes, I seemed to have growled. Lovely what boys seem to do to me. (I do hope you're noting the heavily-implied sarcasm, but if you're not, I know for a fact that a properly placed Potions book to the head can do wonders.)

It's not my fault though, is it? I can't help it if the bane of my existence is so adorably handsome or charmingly unique! It's not my fault I'm thinking of him all the time! How can I help it if I'm constantly comparing him to every other male in my life? How is it my blunder that I think less of Christopher because of James?

Well… maybe the last one is a bit of my own doing.

I mean, there's never been anyone like Christopher. He's kind and sweet and humble and ruggedly handsome, albeit bad with the jokes, but that doesn't stop him from being an all-around excellent guy! I just can't help it if for some reason I think of James as better.

I mean, I know James has his faults as well.

He's still too arrogant for my taste—but then again, I think that might have something to do with his genetic composition… or perhaps it's something you pick up from larger-than-life-headed best mates. That's always a definite probability.

And James is definitely not as responsible as I'd like him to be. A major improvement over the past six years, yes, but there's still so many things he needs to buckle down and do!

And he tries to sweet-talk me all the sodding time! Enough is enough already! I'll be trying to do a difficult essay in the Heads' common room and he'll be in the chair next to me, loading on the compliments.

"You look really lovely today, Lily."

"I know, James, you've told me several times already."

"I can't help but speak the truth. And I've also noticed you tend to get a bit cranky if your ego isn't regularly fed."

Here he grins, which added to the ego comment, make me a very unhappy camper.

"And I won't be able to help but back-hand you if you don't stop with that rubbish this instant."

"You know you like it," he says in that "I'm sexy and I know you think I am" voice.

In fact, I do like it, which only serves to make me all the more peeved. But I keep a cool head and keep my eyes locked on my Ancient Runes essay.

"And I'd also like to smack you one, but I'm too fabulous a person to do so, you know."

"Don't I know it."

I got positively irked at him, so I chased him out of the commons with a flock of canaries. I happen to enjoy canaries very much, really, and they also come in very handy at times.

But even though James has his faults, there's just something about him that reeks of cuteness. He's such a nerve-racked fellow, constantly fretting about something (which is usually me; people think I'm stupid and I don't notice, but I do). Everything from how I'll think he looks to exams is approached with much fretting and then done with such ease. Irksome, really.

And what's really odd is that no one seems to notice his fussiness. It's quite easy to tell when he's nervous (his hand is permanently rooted to his hair), but I think his fussiness is even more obvious. It's not like he's nervous, he's just so… _neat_. Nothing is out of place—every paper, quill, even his robes, are all perfectly aligned. He's so worried he's going to lose something that it's actually driven him to _tidiness_.

Christopher, on the other hand, is so laid-back, taking whatever life has to throw at him. It's something I very much admire about him. Sometimes I wish James wouldn't worry about what I think of him; it makes me feel dreadful knowing he can't know what I really think of him. But Christopher… he just doesn't have that something that James has.

_Merlin_, sometimes I wish I could marry one of those canaries.


	5. 21 January 1977

**Discaimer: **On top of Mount Smokey.

**Author's Notes: **I have no notes, let alone **a** note to give you at the moment, so suck it up and read the story... and REVIEW. I know you're reading it out there! -shakes fist like a grumpy old man-

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_21 January, 1977_

I like to think that I'm a funny girl. I have a good sense of humor (or so I'm told), even if it is a bit wry. I like to laugh and I'm good with witty responses. Right?

I told Christopher the funniest joke before Transfiguration today, the one about the wizard, the centaur, and the hag all in a bar. I think it's the funniest joke I've ever heard in my life, including the one about the flying nifflers.

And he just sort of… stared at me, as if unsure of what to do. I practically had tears running down my cheeks and he was frowning at me, as if he was actually confused.

"But—wouldn't the wizard have noticed?" he asked, still looking perplexed.

"That's what makes it so funny!" I exclaimed, now wiping the tears from my eyes.

He just shrugged and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. And at that moment none other than—do you even have to ask?—the Marauders showed up.

Sirius punched Christopher on the arm and slung his other arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry, mate, it's a dry joke anyway."

I pushed him away with both arms, sending him skidding into Peter. "You're the one who told me it, you prat!"

"I did, eh?" he said, giving it a bit of thought. "I seem to remember it with a slightly different ending." He then waggled his eyebrows at me in a very suggestive way, if you know what I mean.

We all burst into laughter (some passing second years were eyeing us angrily; those little swots think they rule the school now that they're not the youngest)… that is, all of us were simply gasping for breath but Christopher. He kind of stared from me to Sirius and then back to me.

That was the first time I realized it—Christopher has absolutely no sense of humor.

Well, absolutely none might be a bit of an exaggeration (though he still doesn't know why the chicken crossed the road), but he only laughs at the simplest jokes. He doesn't seem to get the smarmy jokes that Sirius tells or the clever ones Remus tells or the barmy ones Peter tells (frankly, no one understands those, but we laugh anyway).

But what's really sad is the fact that he doesn't get the quixotic (yay! big word) jokes James likes to tell, one arm thrown around my shoulders and the other thrown around the shoulders of a fellow Marauder. They're the jokes with the chivalrous adventures of love and idealistic settings, the ones every girl wished she were part of, including the sappy ending with some cheesy underlying punch line. They're surprisingly refreshing, though, after having to choke down dinner through several of Sirius's bawdy tales.

He's even attempted a few jokes, Christopher has. He knows how much I like to laugh and he's tried, he really has. He'll get a feeble laugh out of me (mostly forced, too), but he can't even spit out a joke about Flitwick's height like I heard a first year the other day. He says it would be rude. Professor Flitwick can't help it if he's short.

That's the time I start laughing, when it's not supposed to be funny. Eventually he'll join me in the laughter, but it's not the same. It's not fun laughter, the kind of laughter where it's funny for both of you, where it gets funnier every time you say it, where you snicker about it in the back of the Arithmancy class when you think no one else is listening.

That's the kind of laughter I have with James.

We could spend hours on hours just sitting there, laughing. He tells me the funniest stories about Sirius and Remus and Peter and what the four of them supposedly do past curfew, and about the immature things his parents used to do at the dinner table with their utensils, and even the things he's found under his bed (ranging from his Divination dream diary he lost in second year to a sleeping Sirius).

And he makes the most hilarious faces when he's telling stories, exaggerating every expression he makes so much that I'm not quite sure what the story was even about. All I seem to remember is how funny those faces were.

But the best thing about James' jokes is that he knows when not to say them.

I don't know if I'm that easy to read (and I hope to Merlin I'm not), but he seems to know if I'm in a mood. And it's almost like telepathy, I swear, but one look at James and the other Marauders lose the laughter and start to talk about Quidditch or, in Remus's case, N.E.W.T.s. It's like he knows if I just need an arm around the shoulders or a squeeze of the hand.

If Christopher senses I'm in a mood (which I hardly doubt he'd be able to), that certainly doesn't stop him.

He still tries to pull those wonky jokes about Potions that no one thinks are funny but everyone tries to shake off with a bit of laughter. He still looks at me expectantly, like he's awaiting my approval of his joke, as if I'm supposed to laugh at everyone.

Were it one of the Marauders, or James particularly, I would stare him straight in the eyes and say deadpan, "That's not funny." And then we would laugh some more simply because it _wasn't_ funny. We have a twisted sense of humor, I suppose, just us two.

We laugh at things together that not even the other Marauders laugh at. And that just makes us laugh some more, James and I.

But I hate it, I really do! I hate it, his sense of humor. He knows how to make me laugh and to smile. He can warm me from the inside out by saying something a bit swotty in a pristine voice, just like those second year snots do. They'll huff past us and shoot us daggers, which nearly reduces me to tears.

How am I ever to get over a boy—a man, I suppose—who makes me giggle like a little third year girl as a cute little fourth year boy passes? How am I ever to get over him if he keeps insinuating so? "You know, Evans, if you keep that up, you just might force me to ask you out," he'd say, with an accompanying wiggle of the eyebrows.

_How_ am I supposed to say no to _that_?


	6. 27 January 1977

**Disclaimer: **Would _you_ date the Giant Squid?

**Author's Notes: **I like this entry. It's cute. And I'm not quite sure when I'll update next as I've had an idea-palooza and I want to type those up for you fun people to enjoy and stuff. But I'm planning on working on it tonight and tomorrow. Yep.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_27 January, 1977_

You know what really irks me? The assumption that girls love to talk nonstop. I mean, there are some girls that are quite the chatterboxes, but that doesn't mean we all are!

I, for one, enjoy a healthy and wholly two-sided conversation. What's the point of having a one-sided conversation with someone? It's as if you're practically talking to a mirror anyway. And I really don't enjoy talking to a mirror in the first place, as all they have to say are snide comments on how unruly your clown hair is.

The thing is, many women would love to have a man who just sat there and listened to her complain about her ex-best mate or how she failed her last Arithmancy quiz, though how she would have gotten into Arithmancy is beyond me.

But I'm not like that. My best mate is still my best mate and didn't run off with my ex-boyfriend from the fifth year, and I'm certainly not failing Arithmancy. So what exactly to do I have to complain about except the Ministry or a well-placed Slytherin here or there? I'm perfectly content on conversing about the aforementioned topics, or, maybe if I'm feeling a bit daring, a bit of gossip that's floating around about some new trick Zonko's is coming out with.

But most importantly, I like hearing what other people think. I hate having to force conversation on someone as it leads to noticeably awkward lapses in the discussion and talks about the weather. And I've never been one too inclined to discuss the weather.

But sometimes I feel the need to resort to the dreaded weather topic when I'm talking to Christopher. Now I'd like to say I absolutely adore the "majestic display of talented players and well-rehearsed movements" that is Quidditch, but frankly, I'd be lying. Now don't get me wrong, it's a great game and all, but there are other topics of discussion out there! It makes me feel as though whenever I'm talking to Christopher, one thing or another leads to Quidditch.

"How'd that Arithmancy quiz go?"

"I'm sure I did well; I know I scored at least a ninety-six."

"Excellent! That reminds me—the Tornadoes are playing the Magpies today. I wonder what the score is so far? The WWN is broadcasting—mind if I go and check?"

"Oh, sure, why not?" Added in undertone to self— "It's not as if I wanted to spend any time with you. No, go to your precious Quidditch!"

"What was that, Lily?"

"Oh, nothing, Christopher. Go on, I'll catch up with you later."

I think males all assume that women want a big Quidditch star. Well, news flash, boys: THIS ONE DOESN'T.

He doesn't need to be a big "Quidditch hunk" or a "god of the broom," as some of my shallow roommates have called those athletes. It'd be an added bonus, of course, with those muscles and seeing him up in the air like that, but it's definitely not a necessity. How is one ever going to get a guy if there are only twenty-eight Quidditch players in the school, half of which are women!

It's ridiculous, really. Quidditch is not life.

But sometimes it seems so for Christopher. Once we pass the subject of Quidditch (which is usually pushed very quickly, thanks to yours truly), we sort of lapse into silence. I try and talk about other things, but he only nods and adds his two cents in when I ask him. It's as if he's content enough to just sit there and watch me while I talk.

Now as I've stated, I don't enjoy a one-sided conversation. It positively irks me. In a way I can't describe. I like to talk, sure, but I also like to talk to a person who talks back and tells me what they think. I want someone who will challenge me and make me back up my reasoning and find a way to support my answers. I want someone who will make me think harder, even if it is just about how sunny it is. I'm sure James could find a way to make me think about that.

Mmph.

I did it again. I'm comparing Christopher to him. And Godric, I don't know why. He's just as obsessed with Quidditch as Christopher is! Why is it any different, Evans?

It's not, I suppose. I dunno, there's just something when Jim and Daisy talk about Quidditch that's different. He just has a way of holding my attention, even when it is about the Wonski Feint (which I've learned a surprising abundance about, really). It's just the way he talks.

I mean, there's never a silent moment between us. We're always gabbing on about something. In fact, I remember having multiple conversations on whether the Giant Squid is a male or a female, and if it was the appropriate sex, would we date it? And what about snogging it? We concluded, I believe, that it would be a lot like licking bobotuber pus off of Snape's hair. And then we promptly said we would definitely _never_ date the Giant Squid, no matter how much it was threatened.

Now how come I don't have conversations like that with Christopher? James and I just go on and on about anything and everything, from our guesses on McGonagall's favorite flavor of Bertie Bott's (licorice for me and ginger for James) to who we think Sirius would look best with (we both finally agreed on Baylee, a loose-hearted sixth year who's very noncommittal).

We always talk, all the time. Whenever we're together, we're finding something witty to say. It's as if we're betting the other to come up with something better or more logical. It's funny that no matter the subject, we can find a way to outsmart each other. ("You know how she loves those ginger newts.")

We usually end up sitting in the Heads' common room late into the night, snuggled up in a cocoon of blankets with mugs of hot cocoa at hand, just talking. This is when we're most sentimental, I think. We'll talk about our families, an untouched subject for the both of us. I hardly ever mention Petunia to anyone, but I do to James. And he talks about his dad. He lost his mum over the summer to some wizard's disease I'd never heard of, and his father's been heartbroken ever since. Of course I don't know what it's like to lose a parent, but I did lose my Grandmum, the closest of all my other relatives. I've never really talked about losing Grandmum with anyone else, but James actually understands.

Of course, it's not like we cry into each other's shoulders every night. That would be ludicrous. What we do brush up on quite a bit are our friends. We'll end up talking about Remus and then I'll add how loyal (and completely idiotic) it was of him to become an animagus for Remus. And then he'll chuckle and shake his head.

But what surprises me is how open James is with his emotions when we talk. Men are usually bottles of angst and such, but not James. He tells me if something, or someone, is bothering him. He'll rant a bit and then blush once he's realized what he's done, but then he's all fine again. You can tell what he's feeling just by the way he talks or how he holds himself when he's talking.

But… he never seems to mention how he feels about me. "Of course you're great, Daisy of mine" is about as much as he mentions. I'd love it if he'd just open his mouth and said what he was really thinking. Merlin knows there's got to be more than "you're great" going on in there.

It's just that… everything with James is so—easy. It's easy to laugh with him, sit with him, watch him, talk to him about anything.

But with Christopher, it usually involves Quidditch and schoolwork. Every once in a while we'll talk about how cute a couple looks together (or wait… maybe that was just me). But either way, our conversations usually turn to the weather.

Gods, how I hate the weather!


	7. 3 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **I like blueberry muffins... but I think I like poppy seed better.

**Author's Notes: **I'm terribly sorry this is so short, but hey, I updated, yeah? I really like this one, though. And for all of you waiting for some action (which would be everyone), the time is soon drawing near. -grins mysteriously-

I've been really into one-shots lately; I've just posted two and I'm about to write another one. Plus I have about five other cute ideas written down that I'd love to get cracking on. But don't worry, this story's my baby and will be finished at all costs.

So on with the story! And don't forget to **review**!

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_3 February, 1977_

I sat down for breakfast today and James tossed me a muffin. He **tossed** me a **muffin**. _A MUFFIN! _

I happen to _like_ muffins very, very much, thank you!

And so what does he do? _He tosses me a blasted **muffin**! _

Deep breath, Evans, you're alright, it's just a muffin, just a muffin….

How could he have possibly known about my muffin fetish? I mean, I rarely eat muffins. Porridge is brain food after all, and my brain certainly needs its food.

So _how_ did he _know_?

These are the things I wish I could hate about him! How does he know everything about me? How does he know I shave my legs every third day? How does he know my shoe size is seven but I wear my shoes half size bigger so I can wear two pairs of socks? How does he know I sleep on my left side with blankets on every night, no matter how hot? And _how_, pray tell, does he know I adore blueberry muffins so that it's unhealthy!

After all, I'm sure Christopher hasn't even thought of when I shave my legs, or what my shoe size is, or what my preferable sleeping position is, or what my favorite kind of muffin is. Not that those things matter. But it's more the fact that James knows those intimate things about me when my boyfriend doesn't even know them.

See, I wish I could hate that about him! I wish I could hate the fact that he knows every little detail about me, but I _don't_. I _don't_ hate that, and you want to know _why_ I don't hate that?

Well, I don't know either.

I suppose… well, I suppose that it's sweet and I like that fact that he knows all my quirks. I dunno, it's just that those are the kinds of things that husbands and wives know about each other, not close friends. Merlin, not even _boyfriends_ know those kinds of things. Take Christopher for example.

I mean, the boy knows practically nothing about me. Sure, he knows a few things, like my study patterns or my favorite lunch, but then, everyone knows those kinds of things, right? And by everyone, I might just be insinuating the Marauders, but nonetheless….

But what I think I'm finally trying to get to is: Why for the love of Merlin and everything good in this world am I dating Christopher Danes?

I mean, sure, he's a wonderful chap and I'm sure he'd make a fantastic boyfriend to someone who needs a quiet listener and a not-too-touchy companion, but not I. Maybe it'd be nice to have a boyfriend who listens to you and isn't all over you, but… not Christopher. He's simply gorgeous (I don't deny it… who could?) and he's sweet and wonderful, but he's just not right for me. I'm sure I make him seem simply awful compared to James, but he's such a doll and I hate to make him seem any less.

Christopher is one of those people you'd love to hang out with in a large group of laughing twits. He'd relax and he'd be laughing along with you, and you wouldn't even mind when he made a poor joke. He's one of those people who can help you with your homework and explains everything just the right way and somehow makes it so much easier and bearable. He's romantic and so terribly sweet it's almost annoying.

And I'm sure some gal will value that… but not me.

I value brazen manner and cheerful disposition and cheesy pick-up lines and _gods_, even the cocky attitude! I like raven hair that looks like a bird's nesting in it and dark hazel eyes and barmy wire glasses. Yes, even the glasses I like.

So we've established why I don't fancy Christopher Danes, and I'm quite sure who I _do_ happen to fancy is painfully obvious, so on to the next pending notion.

_Why_ am I not the lucky girl on James Potter's arm?

That can be answered in many ways, all of which I'm sure will seem very petty once put on paper.

1. How do I know he rally fancies me?

2. What if he hurts me?

3. What if he loses interest in me?

4. What if I fall in too deep?

And now that I think about it, I suppose those are alright questions. I mean, how _do_ I know he rally fancies me?

But then, how could I think he doesn't? He dotes and fawns over me more than my own mother does. And when he looks at me with those big wide eyes, I just can't help but believe everything he's ever gone and told me. I can see the devotion in his eyes.

Sometimes it can even be a bit daunting.

And then there's another question: What if he hurts me?

But then again, what if Christopher hurts me? What if Al hurts me? What if my parents hurt me? This is a risk I have to be willing to take, I reckon. This is what held me back two years ago; why should I let it stop me now? Time is running out for me and James.

But what if he loses interest in me? What if we start dating and I'm not everything he thought me to be? What if he's not everything I think him to be? What if we just fall apart?

But then the other day when I was reading over my Transfiguration notes, he said something to me that changed the answers to all those questions.

"You know, you're very beautiful, Lily," he said, in the voice of an innocent child who's just stating the obvious. And then he added, "Inside and out."

If that doesn't say something, then I don't know what would.

And then the dreaded question: What if I fall in too deep? What if I fall in love with him?

What if I already have?

I don't know what I'd do. I guess I'll just have to wait and see, then. Maybe I'd be romantic and kiss him when he'd least expect it, or maybe I'd leave him a note to avoid all the embarrassment that would be sure to come.

I don't know what I'd do if I fell in love with James Potter. Maybe what I always do when I'm with him.

But I think that, all along, I've been afraid of all these things—deception, getting hurt, hurting him, commitment itself. What if it goes all wrong? But mostly, I think, these things have been my shield. I mean, take a look at James. I shot him down time and time again, and being friends must be killing him like it's killing me, but I can tell—he still wishes we would be something more than friends. He still let's himself be vulnerable while I'm safe behind my excuses.

But not anymore. I'm not putting up with my own petty excuses any longer. I've got to show him I mean business.

And I'm gonna do whatever it takes to show him I mean business… which _might_ just involve breaking up with Christopher.

For how am I to go out with James if I'm attached?


	8. 5 February 1977

**Disclaimer:** Hmm... I'm tired... and own nothing but a vague collection of songs on my iPod.

**Author's Notes: **Good gracious, this took quite a long time, eh? But yeh, I had a sudden inspiration to pick up my baby and add a long-awaited chapter. Anyway, this story should be finished up soon, time wise. I have only two more weeks until school is out, and then I'll be free to write all day until my mummy kicks me off the computer! Yay!

Erm... **REVIEW **and stuff.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_5 February, 1977_

No matter how many times you do it and no matter how much you dislike the person, chucking someone is still never easy. Every time, no matter what, there's still that sting inside of you that makes you want to question if doing that was the right thing. Maybe it's anger. Maybe it's confusion. Perhaps it's just resentment.

But what's the worst, no matter what, is getting chucked before you can chuck them—like what happened to me.

It all started when I told Christopher I wanted to go for a walk after dinner. He looked at me and gave me a soft of queer look, like he wasn't sure if I was being serious or not. He must have decided I was for he gave me a peck on the cheek and said he'd meet me by the oak doors.

I fretted about it all through dinner, thought I got no sympathy from Al, who said it was about time I chucked the berk. I just glared at her. I may not fancy Christopher, but that doesn't mean I don't like him at all, 'cos I really do. He's fantastic, yes, but just not my type.

I met him by the doors just like I requested, feeling extremely nervous and wishing I had put this off until tomorrow. But there was no backing out now; I had to go through with it. I stuffed my hands in my robe pockets in case he made a rare attempt to hold my hand and headed toward the Quidditch pitch, Christopher following.

We were silent for at least five minutes, just walking, until Christopher broke the silence. "It's him, isn't it?"

We had stopped walking by now, and I cocked an eyebrow at him as I muttered quietly, "Hmm?"

He repeated his question, this time with more strength.

"Him who?" I asked, truly confused as to what he was on about.

He only said one thing in response: "James Potter."

"What about him?" I asked, now somewhat anxious, shoving my hands deeper within my pockets.

He didn't look at me when he said it, but I could still tell he was upset. "You like him, don't you?"

"'Course I do," I said lightly, feigning stupidity. "He's a great friend."

"Don't play dumb, Lily, you know that's not what I meant," he said sharply.

I kept it up anyway. "Then what _did _you mean, Christopher?" I asked.

"You fancy him." It was a statement, not a question. I said nothing. "You want to break up with me, don't you?"

He said it so piteously that for a moment I almost wanted to tell him I'd never leave him, but I knew that would be a blatant lie. Instead, I said quietly, "How'd you know?"

He snorted derisively. "I'm not stupid, Lily. I've seen the way you look at him, the way you let him hold your hand or carry your books for you." He sighed. "You were going to chuck me for him, weren't you?"

I nodded guiltily, feeling the sudden urge to justify myself. "I don't know why I don't fancy you, Chris, and—"

"It's Christopher," he automatically corrected.

"Fine," I said shortly. "I don't know why I don't fancy you, _Christopher_, and I really wish I could, 'cos you're the most fantastic guy ever—"

"Not James Potter?" he asked, and I could sense his bitterness.

"You're just as fantastic as James, but in a different way," I admitted grudgingly, "but I—I still fancy James in spite of his faults."

"But… but how can you not fancy me if I'm so bloody fantastic?" he questioned, trying to seek an answer I hardly understood myself.

"I don't know, Christopher, I don't know! You're just so—far too much—you're too perfect!"

"Too perfect?" he whispered faintly.

"Yes! You're too perfect for me!" I cried. "You're what I always thought I wanted in a guy, but apparently that's not what I need."

"And you _need_ James Potter?" he asked exasperatedly.

I shrugged my shoulders briefly. "Maybe, and maybe not. I don't know yet."

He ran a hand through his rumpled hair and sighed. "Fine," he said shortly. "You want James Potter, you can have James Potter. I won't stand in your way any longer." He made one more disgruntled sound in the back of his throat before turning around, but not without a final, sharp "'Bye, Lily".

As he walked away, I got the stinging sensation that I'd made the wrong choice.

What if I did go out with James, and he hurt me? What if I wake up tomorrow and realize that I miss Christopher more than I'd thought I would? What if breaking up with Christopher really _was_ the wrong thing to do? What if I end up unhappy with James? What would happen if I liked Christopher more than I like James?

_What if…?_

I hate this, I really do! The more I try to fix it, the more mixed up it gets. I try to sort out my thoughts, and another ten springs up. It's just question after question, none of which I can answer.

The more I think about it, the harder it is to find any solutions to anything. All I can do is sit back to see how this unfolds.

In one scenario, James tells how wonderful I am, conjures up a bouquet of roses (which would remind me of a Muggle magician, but I wouldn't mind terribly, not at all), and asks me to be his. (And of course I accept.)

But in another scenario, James tells me how nice a friend I am, provides me parchment when need be, and continues his steady eight month record of not asking me out. I end up alone and terribly lonely, something I'd rather not prefer.

But then again, what makes me think that James'll suddenly—after eight whole months—ask me out again? Why would he, after years of rejection on my part? Who's to say he even still likes me? I always get the impression he does, but… perhaps he's friendlier than he realizes?

And what if he thinks I'm just on the rebound, that I'm still not over Christopher? What if he doesn't believe me when I say Christopher and I broke up _because_ of him? What if he thinks I'm just lonely and want a boyfriend? (Which I do, but nonetheless…)

I want him to know I did this for him, because of him, because I want _him_. I need him to know that Christopher and I broke up so I could be with him, who I _really_ wanted to be with.

All I can do now, though, is hope that he'll understand—and that he'll hurry up and ask me out already, 'cos we couldn't have that taking a long time, now could we? There's only four months of Hogwarts left!


	9. 6 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **James, Lily, their love -- not mine. Christopher -- mine.

**Author's Notes:** Yay! Happy, yes? Firstly, I'd like to say I really like this entry. This is probably the best argument I've ever written (I'm very bad at arguing myself).

Secondly, I'd like to say that this entry to dedicated to Anaela loves who, who incidentally gave me the inspiration for this entire ficlet when she wrote "Someone Like Me," an adorably "flangsty" fic that I suggest you read. ;D

And again, **REVIEW**.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_6 February, 1977 _

Whoever invented the all-nighter deserves to be shot. Not that the all-nighter was necessarily invented, or that its alleged inventor isn't already six feet under, but honestly, out of all of the horrible things one can do to oneself, this by far earns itself a spot on the top ten worst things list. Why would you ever want to subjugate yourself to this kind of torture? Who would _not_ want to go to sleep?

Me, apparently. I slipped under my duvet last night and lay there, just staring at the top of my four-poster. Of course, I wasn't just doing nothing. Oh no, I was doing what I always seem to do (something some people say I do too much of)—thinking.

That's what I ended up doing the entire night—thinking. I thought about Christopher and me breaking up, and I thought about walking back up to the castle alone, and I thought about how I wasted two hours just sitting on my four-poster, wanting to cry but not being able to, and then I thought about how late I was for patrolling with James. But mostly, I thought about the conversation I had with James while we were patrolling.

I was fifteen minutes late by the time I found James, who was already patrolling the sixth floor. As I walked (or ran, if you'd like to get specific) over to James, he didn't give me his usually chipper greeting, but instead a curt "you're late".

"Yeh, sorry about that," I said, brushing back my fly-away hair. "Lost track of time."

He already looked quite surly when I'd come, and his frown deepened after I had spoken.

"You were with Danes?" he offered as an excuse, his cheeks tingeing pink.

I shrugged. His terse comment put a damper on an already damp mood. Being chucked by Christopher had been hard on me, especially since I was the one who was supposed to be doing the chucking, and just seeing James had brought about a fresh wave of guilt and depression to my mind. Mentioning Christopher like that made me want to tell James off for even saying anything. But I didn't. I was content to wallow in my own confusion and guilt for the moment.

I heard him sigh beside me. "Look, Lily…" He paused, and it seemed as if he was having a hard time saying whatever he was trying to say.

"What is it, James?" I asked. I was still somewhat miffed at him for taking a shot at my now nonexistent relationship with Christopher, but it seemed as if whatever he was going to say was important.

He ran a hand through his hair distractedly. He looked so confused and hesitant of himself that it was almost adorable. "Look, Lily, I think that—I don't like the fact… Lily, I don't think you sh-that you should be, erm, d-dating Danes."

By now we were standing on the staircase between the sixth and fifth floors. I stared at him in what I suppose was shock.

"I just don't—think th-that… that he's right for you, you know." He shrugged to himself.

"He's… he's not right for me?" I whispered quietly.

He still hadn't looked me in the eyes as he went on, "Yeah. He's just… not the—the one for you."

"Well, I'd have to agree with you," I began to say, but I was cut off before I got even halfway through.

"He's just not the kind of—the kind of person you need, you know?" he went on, his eyes finally meeting mine. "He's too—too…" He struggled to find a word to adequately describe what exactly Christopher was. "Predicable! He's too predictable for you, Lily."

Now I was a bit more miffed that James was saying Christopher wasn't interesting. "He's not boring, _James_, he's dependable," I said defiantly. We may have had a rocky ending, but I would still consider Christopher in the "friendly acquaintance" category.

"But don't you want a boyfriend who could—I dunno—spice things up a bit, yeah?" he said, taking a step nearer to me. He had a very intense look in his eyes and his cheeks were flushed an uncustomary pink.

"I think I was—" I began to say, but was once again cut off by a keyed up James.

"Someone who would bring you flowers before class or send you notes or save you the last piece of treacle tart? Does Danes do any of that for you?" he continued on, almost in an accusatory tone, as if it was my fault Christopher never did those exact things.

"Not any—"

"Exactly!" He had a thin finger pointed at my chest. "He doesn't do those things because he doesn't _appreciate _you."

I frowned in annoyance as a bubble of anger grew inside of me. How dare he assume those things about my relationship with Christopher? Sure, he may not have brought me flowers or sent me distracting notes in class or saved me a piece of fattening dessert, but he listened to me and gave me my space and didn't waste my time on stupid things.

"I'll have you know—"

"Lily, I—I want you to break up with him."

All I remember thinking before I blew up was: Will you ever change?

"James Potter!" I screeched (and believe me, it was a screech). "Who do you think you are, my overprotective mum? Who gave you the authority to tell me what to do? You may be my friend, but that gives you no right to tell whom I may or may not date! If I want to date Christopher, I'll bloody well date him then! It wouldn't matter if you thought he was a Death Eater, for all I care; I would still date him if I wanted to! You have no right to tell me to break up with him! If I wanted to break up with him, it would be _my_ decision!"

I ended my rant with a huff and balled fists, breathing heavily. James was only staring at me, looking very hurt with my outburst, but I was beyond remorse at this point.

He shook his head, blinked his eyes hard, and shook his head again. "You… you're right," he finally muttered. "I shouldn't've said anything."

I nodded brusquely in agreement and folded my arms across my chest.

"It's just…" He paused, as if waiting for me to begin yelling again. "It's just that—you don't look like you're having much fun when you're with him."

"How much fun I have when I'm with Christopher should make no difference to _you_, James," I shot back harshly.

"But it _does_," he said, almost pleadingly. "It does matter to me if you're happy."

I gave a huff and set off down the corridor, wrenching open classroom doors, peering inside for late night stragglers.

James jogged to keep up with me. "I don't think he's good enough for you."

"Persistent little bugger, aren't you?" I muttered under my breath. I felt awful for yelling at him—it was just like the old days—but he deserved it. He had no right to say what he did to me. I make my own decisions and no one is going to change that, not even James.

He made one last feeble attempt at getting through to me. "He's not the one for you."

I rounded on him, my eyes spitting fury (or at least, that's what it seemed like). "And who then, O Great James Potter, passes your inspection? Who's the one for me?" I spat, actually questioning why I fancied someone so demanding and chauvinistic and controlling.

It seemed as if it took forever for his lips to form the words, yet at the same time it seemed like not even a second. It seemed as if he screamed it at me and still whispered it at the same time. It seemed as if he was more surprised with his answer than I was.

"I am."

I had to blink back the tears that were threatening to form in my eyes. I'm not sure why I wanted to cry, but all I know is that I wanted to. For the first time since I had been chucked, I actually wanted to.

I didn't say anything else to him the rest of the patrol. I just opened doors and peered inside empty classrooms and broom cupboards. I even handed out detentions to a pair of giggling second years who didn't look very sorry until I gave them a yelling at. They're probably telling all their little friends how dreadful the Head Girl is now.

I was overwhelmed—_so_ overwhelmed—at the moment that I didn't know what to do. He'd gone and told me he wanted to be with me, he wanted to appreciate me, he wanted to be the one for me. But I _couldn't think_. Everything was a massive jumble of emotion and confusion. I wasn't sure of anything anymore. I remember the thought of "go on, agree with him" passing through my mind and the words "you are" pressing on my lips, but nothing happened. I didn't do a thing.

I wanted to tell him how I felt, about him, about this, about breaking up with Christopher, but no words came to me. It was as if my thoughts were so incoherent that I couldn't even form a proper sentence to say to him. I wanted to comfort him more than anything, to tell him it was alright and that I wanted to be with him, that I had broken it off with Christopher just for him, but I couldn't. I was too unsure of how to feel.

But now… now I know how I feel. And I feel as if I've lost the only chance I'll ever have with James.


	10. 7 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **I now officially own my very own boxed set of _His Dark Materials_. Yay me!

**Author's Notes: **Yay! I'm out of school! And I've updated! Happy time, yes? So anyway, I've been quite busy as of lately. Why am I busy? Why, I've been reading! And what have I been reading? Why, none other than some the greatest books ever known to man--_His Dark Materials_! (For all of you who don't know, _His Dark Materials_ is a trilogy consisting of _The Golden Compass_, _The Subtle Knife_, and _The Amber Spyglass_. Read them!)

And as for this story, I'm sensing about three to four more chapters left. And now that I'm out of school, I'll have the actual time to work on them! (And various other one-shots that I've gotten inspiration for but actually haven't started.)

So... enjoy and **review**.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_7 February, 1977_

I feel unbelievably horrid for yelling at James the other day. I know what he said really hurt me and that I was unfairly emotional, but I still shouldn't have exploded at him like I did. I feel like a load of dung for doing it, but I have a short fuse that he knows how to light.

I just couldn't believe his nerve! Demanding that I break up with Christopher, like he could control me and tell me what to do! If anyone should know any one thing about me, they should know that I'll do as I please and certainly no one is going to make me do something I don't want to do. Some people say I'm over-assertive; I say I'm just exercising my free will.

So, feeling as horrible as I did after stewing all day yesterday, I went to find James to muster up a rare enough apology. It takes quite a bit to push me to apologizing, so I was banking on him being appreciative so it might be easier.

Our conversation went as follows, or as close as I can recall as I have the memory of something that doesn't have a very good memory at all:

"Er…" was my original opening line as I stood in front of James's chair, where he was reading a Quidditch magazine. Most of the Gryffindors were in the Great Hall eating, like I very much would have liked to be doing, but making amends with James was at the top of today's To Do list, and I figured I'd get that out of the way (besides the fact that I wouldn't have been able to eat anyway, being so guilty).

He looked up at me, colored a very endearing shade of pink, and turned his face back down to his book.

"James?" I began again. "Could we—ah—have a word?"

He turned his head up at me and stared at me with those big hazel eyes and just blinked. His ears were still very red.

I took that as a yes and sat on the couch next to his chair, folding my hands in my lap and fidgeting uncomfortably.

"You see now, James," I began awkwardly, almost as if he was a little child, "I'm very awfully sorry about the other day, but you had me terribly upset and I couldn't help but yell at you."

He didn't say anything, so I went on.

"But I still hated yelling at you, and I know it was wrong, and I hate that I couldn't control myself and that I did it, and—bugger, why won't you say anything?"

He looked up at me with that purposeful gleam in his eye when he spoke. "I want to go out with you."

Out of all the things he could have possibly said, this was the one I was least expecting. Apologizing, perhaps, or maybe another going on about how Christopher just wasn't for me, but certainly not this.

"Oh. Erm…" I stuttered, turning progressively pinker all the while (I could feel my face burning). "James, I—"

"I know you have a boyfriend, Lily, and I just thought I'd finally come out and say it. I've fancied you for a long time and if you ever need a bloke who can appreciate you, well… there's always me." He jutted out his chin in apparent defiance and it seemed as though he was trying to ignore how pink his face really was.

"James, I... I—"

He looked genuinely surprised that I'd opened my mouth at all and at once looked away in mortification.

"James, Christopher and I broke it off."

"Oh. I… er—" he stuttered, unable to find the proper words to express his joy while at the same time remaining sympathetic and understanding. Simply put, he looked quite confused at how to respond.

"Could we just, you know—"

"Sort of just—?"

"Pretend it never…"

"And then everything—"

"Yeh."

"Alright."

For what it's worth, this bit of the conversation wasn't nearly as confusing as it seems. We both knew exactly what we were talking about and completely understood each other (yet another odd trait we seem to have acquired around each other).

"It's like the past days have never happened," I stated, and he nodded his head in agreement. We sat silently for a few moments before I ever-so-discreetly turned my head to peer at him. He was staring right back at me.

He grinned apprehensively and reached inside of his robes for something. "Chocolate Frog?" he questioned, pulling out a battered container.

I shook my head as I took the Frog from him and popped the wrapper open. It jumped and landed—where else?—but in my hair, where it lands every single time I happen to open one of those little buggers. I pulled it out of my hair as it gave a feeble kick and mercilessly snapped the legs off. Stuffing a leg in my mouth, I gave the body to James, who grinned and accepted the mutilated frog body from me, just like he always does.

After a few more awkward moments of us munching on the chocolate, he stood up, adjusted his robes, and said, "Well, I'm heading down to grab a bite. You, er—you want to come?"

I blinked at him before saying, "Uh… yeah, go on ahead of me. I'll catch up with you in a bit."

He nodded his head and in a swish of his robes he was out the portrait hole. I paused for a few minutes to make sure he was absolutely gone before standing up myself.

A grin broke out on my face, a grin that grew the longer I stood there until I couldn't stand it anymore and threw my hands up and gave a high-pitched girly scream for the whole common room to hear. And then I did the least Head Girl-ish thing one could do—I jumped up and down on the common room couch, the one that always creaks and groans when you sit on it, and chanted over and over again, "He still fancies me! He still fancies me!"

What, you thought I wouldn't be overjoyed that the bloke I fancy fancies me back? Of course I was! I was ecstatic! I was beyond words! I was…

I was unsure of what to do. Should I just go right out and tell him what I feel? Should I wait a few days, let him know he's not just a rebound? What should I do?

And as much as I hate to admit it, I care about what other people think of me. I don't want people to think horrid things about me just because I was chucked by my boyfriend and then had a new one only two days later. I don't want them to think I'd go out with James only because I was distraught over Christopher and that I was feeling lonely and depressed. I want people to know that the only reason I'd go out with James Potter is because I like him very much so and I want to be with him, not because I was chucked.

But either way, I very much like James, and I can only hope that he'll ask me out sometime soon. Just as long as he knows I like him very much.

He _does_ know I fancy him, doesn't he?


	11. 10 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **I own my charging iPod and will (unfortunately) inherit the pile of junk that we call our car. You don't want that, do you? 'Cos if you want the car, you can take it and save **me** from it.

**Author's Notes:** So... here we are. This is for Megan, who pestered me into writing it. Uh... I hope you like it and that it wasn't too expected. But if it was: I'll live.

**Review**, por favor.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_10 February 1977_

I have never been as afraid as I was last night.

I didn't know if he was playing hard to get or perhaps he actually didn't know, but either way he hadn't done a thing about it. I honestly thought James Potter was absolutely daft and didn't know that I fancy him.

Well… he knows now.

I was nearly shaking, I was so nervous. Surely you would be to, being about to tell the bloke you fancy that you fancy him! But I'm not in Gryffindor for just any reason, and after reminding myself of that several times, I mustered the courage to unlock the door of the girls' dormitory and actually venture into the common room.

It was easy enough to spot him, of course, as he was reliving the recent match against Ravenclaw in detail, with a swarm of students surrounding him. For a fleeting moment I considered letting his bask in his glory and mentioning this later. But after he caught my eye and motioned me over, I couldn't help but oblige. I sidestepped a third year or two and he scooted over on the couch that I might sit next to him.

I noticed the moment that I sat down that the number of goals he had scored was upped, as well as the number of bludgers he'd barely escaped from. And the entire time, his eyes would dart to me to see if I was noting his great accomplishments. All of a sudden those kindly Ravenclaws were vicious and nasty during the entire game, cobbing here and stooging there and—did you see it?—the Keeper _had_ to be flacking!

Every once in a while an astute Quidditch fan would point out that "no, I didn't spot any flacking at all," to which they would be shushed by a fan girl on pretense that "all Quidditch players exaggerate a bit."

Though not an avid fan myself, I noticed few of the fouls that had supposedly happened during the game, but yet I must also agree that Quidditch players tend to go overboard a bit sometimes. I did my best to appear haughtily interested, a look have yet to master from Sirius. Eventually the crowd dispersed, leaving on the couch just James, me, and the butterflies that had taken residence in my stomach. I hoped I didn't look too nervous.

We sat in silence for a minute of two, neither of us able to find the words.

"So, ah," I began, "great game then, eh?" I chuckled a bit to which he joined, albeit reluctantly.

After a moment I gave another stab at conversation. "So, how's the Charms assignment fairing?"

"Finished last night," he said nonchalantly.

"Ah… as did I," I mumbled, unsure of what to say. "And er—Transfiguration?"

"Was going to start that right now, actually," he said, his eyes flickering to me.

"Oh! Well, please, don't let me stop you!" I said and was half way off my seat before he touched my arm.

"No—no, it's fine. I'd much rather sit with you than do homework," he said, pulling me down onto the couch, presumably much closer to him than I'd been before.

"Well, that's sweet," I replied, grinning, "to know you value me over your homework."

"Of course." He grinned that cocky grin that flashed off all of his teeth.

We watched the fire crackle for a moment before he spoke. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"You see, I—wait. How did you know I wanted to talk about something in particular?"

He grinned mysteriously and tapped his nose. I asked him again, my curiosity piqued.

He shrugged. "You look a touch anxious and I assume you'd like to talk about something. What that something is, though, I can hardly figure."

I could feel my resolve weakening. "If you have Transfiguration to do, I don't want to be distracting you. We could always talk tomorrow if you'd like—"

"I'd rather like to talk right now, thanks," he cut in gently.

I scooted closer and rested my head on his shoulder, relishing his warmth. His arm slid slowly over my shoulders, as if testing new waters, and I leaned into him as a reassurance.

"Now you see, the thing is, James," I began delicately, "I've got to tell you something, and this something is important."

I felt his voice rumble in his chest as he made a sound in the back of his throat for me to go on. I shivered at the feeling of it.

"James, I—"

"What is it?" he asked, his head resting on mine. His voice sounded somewhat drowsy.

I decided to get right out with it, and quickly. "James-I-fancy-you."

After a sharp intake of breath, there was nothing. I wondered vaguely if he was just in shock; after all, I could still feel his heart pounding against mine. I risked a glance up at his face—there was a look of awe, his bright eyes gleaming.

And all of a sudden, we were standing, the both of us, and he was twirling me around, his arms secure about my waist. He dropped me back to my feet and I saw his face—he was grinning like a madman.

"You're brilliant," he proclaimed, and he beamed at me like I was a little child who had finally grasped a difficult concept. Holding me at arms' length, his hands gripping my arms so tightly it seemed as though he thought I would run the minute he let go, he gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. His eyes glowed as he beamed at me once more before he walked off, an obvious spring to his step.

I stood there in shock for a moment. Then a white-hot anger began to burn inside of me. Oh, I was horribly angry with him then! It took me two quite large bars of Honeyduke's finest chocolate, five cups of tea, and an hour-long rant to Al to make me feel even slightly calmer.

It still makes my blood boil to think of what he did to me last night. After years of fancying me, I decide to go and tell him that I feel the same way, and all he does is give me a peck on the cheek and run off! Out of all the possibilities—well, this wasn't even an option.

He just _left me there_. Not even a lousy kiss! (Though I doubt that it would be lousy….) I was positive that he would ask me out, or to be his girlfriend, or to honor him with my presence on a Hogsmeade trip, but **nothing**, not a _thing_.

Surely he's the one who wanted this so badly; why would he do this? Why wouldn't he ask me out? It doesn't make sense at all. The only plausible explanation Al and I could think of is that after being denied for years he doesn't expect anything but, and now that I've finally said, "yeah, let's date," he doesn't know what to do. Either that or he's just plain barmy.

He wants to date me, I want to date him—so what's holding him back? Why won't he ask me out? After all the teasing and the flirting and the showing off, and now he can't muster up the courage when he already knows the answer? Has he fallen and hit his head, making him permanently incapable of asking a girl out? I should hope not.

Good gracious, if he doesn't ask me out soon, I just might have to do the asking myself. Either that or live my life as an old maid, which I most certainly do **not** plan on doing, not at all.


	12. 12 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **Ugh.

**Author's Notes:** Firstly, I'm sorry that this is so late coming. Lately I've been working on a bit of a story that's not (gasp!) Harry Potter and it's very easy to write and extremely distracting. Secondly, this might not be up to par. as this entry was quite difficult to write. And thirdly, there are only two chapters after this! (applauds)

Fourthly, please **review**.

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_12 February, 1977_

Remember when I said that Al and I reckoned James had gone barmy? Well, now I'm positive of it. He's been acting so absolutely mad the past few days that I don't know if I can stand it another second.

One minute he's being terribly flirty and I'm positive he's about to ask me out, and the next minute he's avoiding me like I'm a plague and I'm sure he's steering clear of me for Merlin knows what barmy reason he's sure to have invented.

I don't know what the child's problem is, but he's sure to have one.

Surely, this is what he's wanted, isn't it? I'm sure he's always pictured how I would tell him that I fancied him and how he would ask me out and finally get 'yes' as an answer, but how am I to say yes if he won't even ask me out, eh?

And really, I don't want to do the asking. That's so… assertive. Not that I don't mind being assertive, not at all, but in romance, isn't it supposed to be the man who's tough and mighty and does the romantic asking? Or is it that I'm just a romantic through and through? Am I not modern enough? Is this what all the trendy girls are doing?

Merlin knows I would hate to do that. Imagine getting all worked up and worried and then having him reject you. Who would actually want to subdue themselves to that kind of nonsense?

Why can't _James_ subdue himself to that kind of nonsense? He's the one who's wanted this for—what is it?—three years now. Shouldn't he be the one buckling down and getting on with it?

And this attitude he's taking! One moment he'll be walking me to class, carrying my books and trying to flirt with me, and the next thing I know my books are on my desk and he's as far away from me as he could be. How strange is that?

I've talked to Al about it, and she thinks it's a bit strange as well. Why would he be avoiding me? Perhaps he's embarrassed now? But why now, after doing so well of it before during the countless times he's asked me out? I've concluded that he's just shy around me. But still, why wasn't he shy any other time when I knew well what he thought of me?

Gods, he's more complicated than any woman I've ever known!

He'll eat breakfast with me in the morning, but come lunch and dinner, he's at the other end of the table, squished between a few fifth years. He doesn't even sit by the Marauders just because they're sitting next to me. And every once in a while in class I'll catch him staring at me, like he'd actually like to take back that seat he gave up at the beginning of class.

What does he expect me to make of that, yeah? Sometimes he can't stand to be away from me, and other times he can't seem to get away fast enough. Really, though, how insulting is that?

And then, when I cornered him about it… ugh.

I had been planning on just heading on up the girls' dormitories to find Al so as I might rant more on how impossible James was being when said insane boy—whom I hadn't seen, by the way—pulled me into his lap. This would have been a quite romantic moment had he not started blubbering on about the match last weekend against Ravenclaw. He just hugged me closer (part I didn't mind) and started drilling me on what I thought of Ravenclaw's defensive tactics (part I neither cared about nor wanted to endure). Can you believe his audacity?

And then I did the only thing that I knew would shut him up: I said, "Ravenclaw ought to have won."

Of course, the only thing he could do was stare at me with his mouth open and his eyes wide. It was really quite endearing, actually…. But nonetheless, it shut him up incredibly quickly.

But then he went into full-on Quidditch-induced rant mode. I vaguely remember him babbling something about "traitor," "your own house," and "the nerve of you!" I really wasn't listening, though, so I wouldn't know. All I noticed was that several people were now staring at us—or more likely, at me, as I was still comfortably positioned on James's lap as he twitched in agitation, his arms flailing about him in a most comical way.

So I turned to him and said, "It was an excellent match, and we most certainly deserved to win, and you played brilliantly. I'm very proud of you."

He looked at me—bless him—disbelievingly, and said, "Wha?"

"I thought that might shut you up," I said, grinning, to which he looked even more confused.

It was at this point that I chose to remember our most compromising position in the middle of the common room and chose as well to turn a rather discomforting shade of red. "Let's have a chat, yeah?" I said weakly, pulling myself out of his arms (and he seemed quite reluctant to let me go) and seating myself on the couch. He sat about as close as he could get next to me, which was quite close seeing as we were on the deflating Gryffindor couch.

"James," I began, and his eyes locked with mine as he grinned, "is there something wrong?"

"Of course there isn't!" he burst, a beam enveloping his features. "Why would there be something wrong?"

"Well, it's just that—you've been acting rather... _odd_ lately, and I just thought—you know—something might be the matter," I stuttered, eyeing him apprehensively.

He responded by grinning all the more widely and tapping his nose with a finger. "You'll see tomorrow, love, you'll see tomorrow. Which reminds me—" he said, and got up. After quickly ruffling my hair (how dare he!), he darted off to the boys' dormitory and I haven't seen him since. This was five o'clock this afternoon. It is now eleven o'clock at night.

What could he possibly be doing up there that takes six hours? Certainly not homework, nor Heads duties, and half of the Marauders are sitting in a corner over there so it can't be any prank or the like… what's he doing then, ogling over Quidditch magazines again? Frankly, I haven't the foggiest.

And what am I to make of what he said? "You'll see tomorrow…" How cryptic; not like him at all. Might as well tell me now and get it over with, right?

The next time I see him, though, that boy's going to have some explaining to do.

And Quidditch better **not** be an option.


	13. 13 February 1977

**Disclaimer: **I've run out of creative ideas for a disclaimer, so... it's not mine.

**Author's Notes:** Well, this took a while, didn't it? Sorry about that. I've been terribly busy lately, so I'm glad I've just had a chance to write this. But don't worry, you'll have the next chapter (and the last) by Wednesday (I'm leaving for a week then, no internet either).

So if you'd just drop a **review**, please and thank you. :D

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_13 February, 1977_

This is one of those moments where I have to remind myself that there are other girls also sleeping in this dormitory and that squealing loudly would earn me quite a bit of cheek from them. So as an alternative, I have decided to vent my enthusiasm and well-earned squealing here.

Except for the fact that I cannot particularly squeal in a small notebook, and for the fact that I spend a good part of the past hour squealing with my dorm-mates, this should be rather enthusiastic, and if need be, simply imagine me squealing along with it.

I'm… I'm—I'm having a rather difficult time saying it, and what d'you know, it transfers to paper as well! The thing is, you see—James asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes!

I am James Potter's girlfriend! (Imagine that long, high-pitched, girlish squealing here.)

And the way he asked me out! Oh, I know he tried terribly hard to be romantic, and it was so sweet, I could just feel my heart swelling with love.

I'd just come back from finishing my Charms homework in the library to find a completely empty common room. Not a single soul in the place; in all my years of going to Hogwarts, I'd never seen it so empty. I dropped my bag off at the stairs of the girls' dormitory when I noticed something: James Potter was out cold on the couch in front of the fire.

He looked so adorable, with his glasses askew and his mouth open a bit. And in his hand was a lily. It's an awful cliché, really, everyone thinking that I'd like a lily instead of some other flower. Lilies are beautiful, yes, but orchids are just as beautiful. Why not one of those? I know I'm not named Orchid, but come now, a little originality would be appreciated.

But nonetheless, it's the thought that counts, right? And he must have put some thought into it, to have realized that my name's Lily and that there's a flower called a lily. So I sat next to him on the couch to watch him—er, wait for him to wake up.

After waiting about five minutes for him to wake up, during which he only snored (and he snores quite something), I decided I ought to wake him up. Honestly, though, what kinds of mates just leave you sleeping on the common room couch? You'd most likely wake up with a Body-Bind on you, or someone making off with your homework, or Ambrose Norden's cat ripping your Transfiguration book to shreds (I swear that cat's demonic). Why would you _ever_ want to fall asleep down there?

So I tried to wake him up. Whispering his name in his ear? Didn't work. Shaking his shoulder? Still nothing. Blowing a raspberry in his face? And I once thought that no one could possibly sleep through that…. At this point, I was out of ideas, so I did what I usually do when Al refuses to be woken: I sat on him.

I'm pretty sure I knocked the wind right out of him too, because he sat up, sent me toppling and nearly set my hair on fire, and had a coughing fit. Then, his eyes still streaming, he looked around and spotted me.

I've never seen anyone pale quite as quickly as he did right then. In fact, I'm quite sure I've never seen someone quite as pale as he was at that moment, excluding ghosts. But it did make those freckles that he gets when he tans stand out….

And then he said in a strangled voice, "What're you doing back so soon?"

Raising an eyebrow, I said, "I've been gone for three hours, James. It's half past eight. You must've fallen asleep on the couch… again."

"Oh… right, well—" He swallowed. "This is for you." He thrust the white lily in my face.

Even though I'd supposed it was for me, it was still just a bit surprising. "Oh! Erm—thank you, James." I bit my lip. "If I'd have known you were going to give me this, I would've gotten you something as well."

He grinned back uncertainly. "Could we—could we sit down?" he asked, motioning to the couch behind us. Or rather, the couch he was still sitting on and the one eye level with me.

I rolled my eyes as I helped myself up and sat down next to him. "So, what's the occasion?" I asked, referring to the flower.

"Oh, you—er… you know." He shrugged, then took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something.

"Alright?" I asked him. "Didn't knock the wind out of you, did I?"

"No, no, I'm fine," he said hurriedly. "But I was just wondering—how are _you_ doing?"

"Well, I'm doing fine. Why d'you ask?"

"Just concerned," he said.

"And I'm just wondering," I said, "but where is everyone? I've never seen the common room this empty before."

"Oh." He flushed, then said, "I cleared them out so I could have a word with you—so I could ask you something."

"Really?" I said, though I'm sure he could hardly hear it over the pounding of my heart. "Ask away, then."

"Well, I was just wondering, since there's a Hogsmeade trip coming up, if you—"

"No, there isn't."

"What, sorry?"

"It's just that—" I felt myself blushing. "There isn't a Hogsmeade trip coming up for another month and a bit."

"Er… well, I was just wondering if you'd like to make plans now for that Hogsmeade trip—with me." He looked at me with those gorgeous doe-like eyes, just pleading me to say yes.

I swallowed all my fear—and believe me, it wasn't easy—and plucked up my Gryffindor courage. "I hope you mean a date, because that's all I'm agreeing to."

"Yeah, a date," said James, and he touched the lily. "That's why I got you a flower."

"Yes, it's lovely, thank you, James," I said. Then: "Yes, I'd love to go with you."

"To Hogsmeade?"

"Yes, to Hogsmeade, on a date, just you and me," I said.

He smiled, and his eyes lit up. "Excellent." Then it seemed as if he scooted just a bit closer to me. "Does that mean you'd… you'd like to be my girlfriend as well?"

I could see his ears turning red and had to hold back on the sudden urge to giggle.

"Yeah," I said, my voice suddenly soft. "I think I'd like to be your girlfriend as well."

"Good," I heard him murmur, and just as he was leaning forward to kiss me there was a loud "Can we come down yet?" from the boys' dormitory, followed by what sounded like a lot of people shushing the twat that interrupted us.

James blew out the breath that he had been holding, stood up, and reached for my hand. "Let's get out of here," he muttered, and pulled me to my feet. As soon as we stepped out of the portrait hole, he called an "okay!" into the common room, and a flood of people came pouring out of the dormitories.

I shook my head, laced my hand with James's, and we took a nice little walk. Among other things.


	14. 13 April 1977

**Disclaimer: **Whoah. Still not mine. Except Chris. He's always been mine. ...Except for his last name, which I got from Gilmore Girls. I'm pathetic, aren't I?

**Author's Notes: **Ah, the last chapter! I'm rather pleased with how this turned out. I especially like the last line. -grins- I really hope you've all enjoyed this story, everyone, I know I've enjoyed writing it!

And, as always, I'd be thrilled if you would leave a **review** saying how youfelt aboutthis chapter in particular or the entire story overall.

Thanks again for reading!

_Aliss_

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_**Christopher**_

_13 April, 1977_

There's no feeling quite like it when he tells you he loves you for the first time. Just like when he kisses you for the first time, or he takes your hand for the first time, it's so special and simple and perfect and you just don't want that feeling to ever go away.

That's how I feel all of the time.

I've been going out with James Potter for the past two months on the spot, and I've never been happier in my life. Sure, N.E.W.T.s may be just around the corner, and sure, there's the thought of finding a job and being able to support myself when school's finished, but it always seems so trivial. It's as if James puts everything into an optimistic perspective. I know there's no way I'll be able to fail any of my N.E.W.T.s—I've been studying around the clock; and I know it may be hard to find a job, being fresh out of school, but I've got some high marks and I'm sure I'll be able to find work somewhere.

It's not like everything is perfect between us either, though. Just the other day we had quite the row, but thinking back on it, I can't really seem to remember what it was about, though the other occupants of Gryffindor Tower would be pleased to remind me. Apparently it was blazing—or at least, that's what some Ravenclaw girls in the bathroom were saying. All _I_ remember is making up with him afterwards.

It's scary—no, bloody terrifying to think that my years at Hogwarts are almost over. We only have a few weeks left before they ship us off for good. It's horrifying to know that I'll never be seeing some of my classmates ever again. Al and I will stay in touch, of course, but that doesn't mean we'll always have what we do right now. And I would hate to lose her.

And that brings up even more horrid thoughts. What if James and I drift apart? What if he finds some other girl he likes more than me? What if he rethinks us and decides he doesn't want me bogging him down? Godric knows I've thought those thoughts enough before, and yet, I never really pause to think about them much. Yes, they're absolutely dreadful thoughts, but somehow, I just don't see them happening with me and James. I've always worried about those things with every boy I've ever dated, but with him, it's as if those thoughts are silly—even a bit stupid.

I mean, he's done more than enough to show that he wants to be with me and that he's dead serious about our relationship. Sometimes he just walks up to me in the middle of the corridor, presses his lips hard against mine for one glorious second, and gives me a shimmer of a smile before walking away. And sometimes he'll pass me a note in class: _Lily, stop fretting about N.E.W.T.s, you'll do excellently. I love you._

And more than anything, I just get this comfortable feeling in my stomach, like I could be doing this for the rest of my life with James—just being with him and being loved by him and being in love with him. I wouldn't mind it, not at all.

One time, even, he told me the sweetest thing that gives me goosebumps every time I think of it. It's probably one of my fondest memories of Hogwarts now, and it's just one of those things that you're never able to forget.

We were outside, taking a walk just for the sake of taking a walk. It was beautiful and warm and you could see all those other sickeningly in love couples like us walking around and kissing, just like we were. And those people, who I used to detest, were no longer as annoying. In fact, they were quite sweet.

And James just spun me around and told me that I'm the best thing in the world, and in his world. I blushed, I'm sure, the most horrible shade of red, but for the first time in a long time, I didn't mind.

"Even better than Quidditch?" I asked.

He put his forehead to mine and chuckled. "Yes," he said, and kissed the tip of my nose. "Even better than Quidditch."

Thinking about that now, I'm surprised I didn't melt at his feet that very moment. He has quite a way with words, that James. But really now, how could I even think a relationship like ours would get anything but better? He's wonderful to me, and I try to be wonderful to him, and he'll play chess with me if I ask! (One of my most ridiculous requests, now that I think about it; I really wouldn't be surprised if no one's ever lost a game of chess quite as quickly as I did, though.)

And really, I have all of this thanks to Christopher Danes!

"An odd thing to say about your ex-boyfriend," I know, but that doesn't make it any less the truth. Really, without Christopher, who knows what would have happened between James and I?

Christopher really made me see all the wonderful qualities about James in a new light. I knew James was a good person, but when I looked at Christopher, it just made James seem like a great person, if that makes sense. I know Christopher is a good person too, but it just seemed so different when I looked back at James. It was as if they were good in different ways, different ways that made me think of them in different ways.

Merlin help me, I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore! All I know is that Christopher made me realize that I didn't need someone who was like me, but more of someone who was less like me. James and I are very similar, but we're still so different, and we make that work to our advantage. Christopher and I… we liked some of the same things, but when we didn't agree on something, we usually left things as they were. We didn't try to argue or make the other understand, we just left as is. Not with James. He wants to make me bleeding _worship_ Quidditch—and I'm fine with that.

So that's why I walked up to Christopher today after Charms class and thanked him.

"What for?" he asked me.

"For making me realize I like to argue," I told him.

He only smiled at me even though I could tell he was confused; that's just the way he is, and that's why I'm with someone like James.

And then I wished him the best of luck with his girlfriend, Ambrose Norden (and her demonic cat, though I didn't mention that bit). She seems to like him quite a lot, if you ask me, and I really do hope that goes well for him.

It seems somewhat mean, all in all, though, to say that the only person in need of thanks for getting James and I together is Christopher, so I'd also like to thank James for being such a sweetheart. I wouldn't be with him if he wasn't, the darling. I'd also give a "thanks" to Remus, Sirius, and Peter, except for the fact that they really didn't do anything to get us together, so why should I bother thanking them? Honestly.

Well, I think I'll go gather up James now. We have some unfinished business to take care of. Though I **can** thank Sirius for interrupting _that_.

**THE END.**


End file.
